


Armed

by beaubete



Series: Portrait of a Lady [2]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-02
Updated: 2018-07-02
Packaged: 2019-06-01 03:23:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15134009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beaubete/pseuds/beaubete
Summary: She can't stay holed up here forever, but damned if she isn't going to try.





	Armed

**Author's Note:**

> For the 007 Fest 2018! Combining Moneypenny Monday with the Crack Prompt Table; I thought it would be fun to try to paint a picture of Eve in 9 mini fics. They don't happen in the same universe at all--some are canon and some are not and some are wildly AU--but I hope that they combine to be one rounded person, the same in all worlds. Think of this as a character exploration project.

For the second time in her life, she almost shoots James Bond.  For the first, she doesn’t regret it. She does the three point check before she even lifts the bead of her gun from his face: gait, blood, eyes.  He fails blood—he’s bloodied liberally, streaked in gore in that artful way that only James Bond has ever been able to do, wearing his wounds half as trophy, half as fashion.  Gait is iffy—he’s staggering, clearly unsteady on his feet, and it’s this more than anything that keeps her sights trained on him; she’s seen him blood-drenched but never so obviously wearing his pain on his face, in the stoop of his shoulders, in the bow of his knee.  Eyes—

He passes eyes.  Easily. No one in the world has those glacial, ice chip eyes.  She thumbs the buzzer for the door and still he stares up at her, dazed or in shock or, she thinks distantly, possibly deaf.  She doesn’t know what’s happened to him. He could be deaf.

“Move your arse!” she barks into the courtyard, and his spine snaps straight.  No, those eyes—there’s too much life, too much vitality and intelligence in those eyes.  She buzzes again.

Just in case, when she hears his footsteps on the tread of the stairs, she places the gun where he won’t be able to reach from the door.  “Shut the door!” she commands, and through the wood she hears the footsteps retreat, hears the reinforced door slam. She waits. And waits.

Eve finds him in the kitchen of the ground level flat, Mrs. Rosen’s flat, before the old lady had died and Eve had had to dispose of the corpse.  She hadn’t been able to stand the smell, the nightmares it had triggered, the surety each time she woke that her locks had failed, that one of them—  Bond is eating a sandwich with the last of the bread, and she’d be annoyed if he didn’t look so much like he needed it. He nods around a mouthful; at least he’d used the sandwich slices instead of the shelf stable supplies she’ll need later.  He swallows.

“That’s a baseball bat.”

“ It’s not just a baseball bat, Bond, it’s a baseball bat with a nail through it.”

He nods again.  “Not cricket.”

“I don’t quite think the zombies deserve a fair chance, do you?”  She knows she’s getting shrill, getting hysterical, but Bond is the first person she’s talked to in days and oh god, she does not have the patience left to deal with his shit right now.

He clearly mirrors the sentiment.  “The wider surface area would require less precision.”

“I don’t need precision, I need power.  Baseball bats are designed—what do you want, Bond?”

He hesitates, and she knows.  Oh, she knows, has always known, if she’s honest with herself.  It’s why she hasn’t done more than shove furniture against the windows of her little flat in the mews: defensible as it is, she’s going to leave.  Damn.


End file.
